


Fighting with my Weak Hand

by groovyhedgehog (GroovyHedgehog)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:42:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GroovyHedgehog/pseuds/groovyhedgehog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John offered his own life to keep Sherlock alive. Now he's imprisoned and dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fighting with my Weak Hand

**Author's Note:**

> John's been ugging me ever since the whole Moffat trolling twitter incident (a.k.a. his tweet about Irene Adler). He's been feeling sorta like shit. This ended up happening... and it’s not chronological. It’s just sort of John’s thoughts, spilling out, memories and stuff, flashes of his past, of his emotions, as he’s being tortured and killed because he refuses to give them information on Sherlock. So yeah. I don’t know. This. I don’t even know what it is. So uh. Whatever. Ish. Full of headcanons and crap. It’s terrible, I know.

_I’m diving off the deep end.  
You become my best friend.  
I wanna love you  
But I don’t know if I can.  
_  
-X&Y by Coldplay

\-----------------------------------------

 _“I’m going to Sarah’s. Don’t wait up.”_

 _“John--”_

Twenty-four hours since those words, since Sherlock’s voice, and he heard it still as clear as his own heartbeat in his chest—the surprise, the slight tinge of disappointment, a deep resonance that always dragged John down, dragged him along. That’s the thing he clung to while they beat him, tortured him, dug into his skin and bones like they were desperately trying to dig into his mind. Everything hurt so much he couldn’t even feel anymore, so he buried himself in Sherlock’s voice.

 _“—I consider myself married to my work.”_

 _“I just meant… it’s fine. It’s all fine.”_

Pain. Screams, stretching out so thin they sliced through his soul. Were they his screams? No, there wasn’t any sound. His mouth wasn’t open. He still heard them, though, those screams that burst into a blinding light and flexed into music, low, harmonious like a whale’s song, resonating through water languid and deep. He felt like he was in water. Water that burned, felt electric, but he was floating, floating, floating...

 _“We’re made for each other.”_

Revelation. Sherlock’s other half was out there, somewhere, someone that could match his mind, challenge it. Because John’s mind wasn’t good enough. His mind was slow, dull, and Sherlock would tire of it almost immediately. Moriarty was right, or partially right: if there was anyone out there that was made for Sherlock, it was someone as brilliant, as awe-inspiring, as utterly and intellectually beautiful as Sherlock. Someone like Moriarty, but with a soul to keep Sherlock in check.

And as the bomb exploded and the world crashed down around them—as John ran as fast as his feet could carry him—he wished, _god please let me die. Please let me die for him. Please kill me because I couldn’t bear the pain of feeling that worthless._ But he survived.

Sarah—lovely, clever. Sherlock—married to his work, he’d never reciprocate. Sarah was there, though, and she was nice. Beautiful. John liked her a lot and she seemed willing to put up with him, because really, who else would put up with a war-torn soldier, aged before his time, haunted by dreams, pulled by the call of danger, aching limbs that reflected the aching in his heart and soul, scars everywhere, scars that he was both ashamed and proud of. For queen and country and friends he failed to save.

He would save Sherlock. He’d rescue him. He’d sacrifice _everything_ for experiments littering the kitchen, running out the door on a whim, violin at ungodly hours, observations no one in their right mind would see, deductions strung together like art, like perfection. Everything. But the only thing that was worth sacrificing was his life—just barely—and here they were, offering him with that chance.

“Dr. John Watson, a pleasure to meet you.”

“I couldn’t say the same. You’ve blindfolded me.”

“A necessary precaution.”

“What do you want?”

“Well, we have a favor to ask. I do hope you'll be open to—”

“Get to the point.”

“My, my, so impatient.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

John tensed, fisted his hands, and then relaxed. He wouldn’t let these bloody fuckers get to Sherlock. There was no way. No way at all.

“You’re not getting anything from me.”

“Not even if there’s a bomb inside of you?”

“What?”

John refused to feel sick. He _refused. I refuse._

“All we want you to do is keep him off of our trail. We inserted a bomb inside of you to make sure you do as we tell you. You’re the only person in the entire world that he trusts. You’re the only person that can do this.”

“I don’t care. Blow me up. I’m not going to do anything!”

“Well then, we’ll just have to kill Sherlock, won’t we?”

“Ha! He’ll figure you out in no time at all, with me dead or not.”

“Dr. Watson, I’m giving you the opportunity to save his life.”

“If you want to save his life then why don’t you leave us alone?”

“If he finds out about us, we _will_ kill him. There is no option. We will kill him before he is able to shut us down.”

“I don’t understand...”

“You have the chance to save your friend’s life, Dr. Watson.”

“By keeping his nose out of your business, right?”

“Precisely.”

“He’s too clever. I’ll never be able to do it.”

“Then he’ll die.”

“So why are you asking me to do this?”

“I’m entirely sure that you’ll find a way, Dr. Watson. Now, should we kill you now, or will you agree to keep Sherlock Holmes away from us?”

No way out. They had him shackled, a collar around his neck, choking, choking, he couldn’t breathe. Sherlock Holmes would be the end of Dr. John Watson. He nodded, slowly, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Very good.”

A thought crossed John’s mind. “You’re going to kill me any way, aren’t you?”

“Yes. No one from the outside can visit us and live now, can they? Your life is merely a precautionary sacrifice.”

John couldn’t argue. His life was nothing compared to Sherlock’s. Nothing.

“Then we have a deal.”

Nothing. John could feel nothing in his chest, no pulse, no breath, only a void, caving in on itself endlessly. Though John was an incredible liar when someone he cared about was at stake, he was still shocked that Sherlock hadn’t suspected anything by now. Normally, Sherlock could tell when someone was bluffing, tell what they were bluffing about, but John’s training was coming to fruition. Or maybe Sherlock trusted John a bit too much.

And in the end, John will die, and Sherlock would be free to find his match.

They said they didn’t want anything else, but they lied. When he returned for a report, they beat him, tortured him, trying to extract everything he knew about Sherlock Holmes, but his lips were sealed. Sherlock Holmes was locked away, only his. No one else’s. They couldn’t have him.

 _“—married to my work.”_ It echoed in John’s mind as he faded into consciousness. His body burned, weary, ready for death. God he wanted to die. The only thing that kept him sane was the thought of dying for something, for Sherlock. Being worthy to call himself Sherlock’s friend. Worthy enough to have stood by his side, even if he’d never be smart enough, bright enough. His life would have to be compensation for the lives he failed to save and it would have to be payment for the brilliant adventures Sherlock ceaselessly offered him.

He knew he hadn’t told them anything. He knew he hadn’t. He’d never betray Sherlock, never, not even if they pried his mind open in search. He hid his thoughts so far away they’d search forever and lose themselves, die looking.

Stroking Sherlock’s curls in front of the telly, head in his lap.

Long nights searching through books.

Laughs. Chases. Adrenaline.

Head in the fridge. Throwing cocaine out. He’d protect Sherlock.

 _Protect him with my soul._

Because his soul was tearing, ripping at the love, the pain, the longing. Everything needed to fit together, but nothing did. It was all chaos. Chaos. Noises, voices, pain, feelings, emotions, beauty, desperation, _oh god, I just want him. I want to lose myself in him. I want to die for him._ But words lingered, echoing, _unworthy, empty, hopeless._

His hands, nailed to the wall, blood _drip drip_ dripping on the floor. His body splayed across the surface, suspended over the floor, torn and cut and broken, the bomb still inside his stomach because he could feel it filling him, impregnating his body with the promise of sweet oblivion. Everything was running together, blurred shapes and lines, but he could see their eyes, just barely gleaming in the dim lightning, a room full of metal and cold and soulless bodies, leering. He was ready to go, ready for whatever adventure promised to take him after death. Because slowly, his heart was dying, wringing out every feeling he had, dwelling on a single thought, a single point that cast a sickening shadow over his vision, his mind.

 _Unworthy._

“Good bye, Dr. Watson,” they laughed. A finger stroked the button.

“Good bye, Sherlock,” he whispered, his voice falling into silence.

And his final thought was an image--an image of Sherlock, sitting at Angelo’s, reaching across the table to take a hand in his own. He couldn’t see the face of the person sitting opposite of him, but he saw the gleam in Sherlock’s eyes that said he was no longer alone.

 _“Yes, I am his date.”_


End file.
